


The Fall

by lalibertalia



Series: The Hundred Hundred Year Fall [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Buckle your seatbelts cause it's Illidan's turn, F/M, Sequel, long fic, threequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14052504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalibertalia/pseuds/lalibertalia
Summary: Trust is a fickle little thing, one which takes years to build, an instant to break, and an eternity to repair.Illidan doesn’t have an eternity. With the Legion on Azeroth’s doorstep, he’s not sure he even has a week.





	1. Chapter 1

Illidan woke with a start and a scream, the kind which burns the throat raw and shatters eardrums like a stone through glass. He reached out, desperately, his spectral sight still hazy in the dark, and hooked his clawed fingers around thin sheets and a smooth, lean arm. He steadied his breathing and turned to his side, where Maiev Shadowsong lay pressed tightly against him. His heart still thundered in his chest as her eyes found his, half-open. He threw an arm inelegantly around her naked form. 

“Again?” she asked faintly, voice thick with sleep.

The visions still twisted behind his eyes, taunting him. 

A volcano shrouded in felfire. Thirteen groups of thirteen mages, performing arcane rites of horrifying design. A battlefield littered with fel orcs and Ashtongue, souls draining from their bodies to fuel the opening of a demonic portal. 

Maiev, covered in blood, at the centre of it all. 

Illidan himself, standing triumphantly, thinking of how to best condense ten thousand years of torture, and eager to unleash it upon her.

“Yes,” he said into the night.

Maiev was unperturbed, grazing her hand lightly across his chest. “Good,” she mumbled, and closed her eyes again.

That was all he would get from her, and he expected no less. He was no stranger to these nightmares, and neither was she, by now. While he waited for his heartbeat to slow, he tried to take comfort in the single word that had passed her lips. So long as he felt guilty, Illidan reminded himself, he was still on the path to atonement.

In the morning he would feel the rawness of his throat, the tension in his muscles, and a pounding in his head that could persist through death itself. Khadgar would politely offer him a sleeping draught, as he had every day since the invasion began, and Illidan would decline, as he did each time it was offered. Velen would whisper a prayer to the Light in his name, and Illidan would pretend that it had gone unnoticed.

He closed his eyes and tightened his hold on Maiev. It would have to be enough, at least for now. 

He felt his mind cloud as sleep slowly overtook him. 

_Your warden lies resting by your side, and for tonight, your time has been served._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back on my bullshit, everyone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, that this chapter alludes somewhat heavily to the Illidan novel by William King. If you haven't read it, you will probably be okay, but if you haven't read it and you like this ship you should definitely pick up a copy!
> 
> Also, I've read this thing so many times over that it's completely ceased to have meaning for me. If you find any typos or mistakes, I'd love it if you could let me know.

Illidan’s days at Deliverance Point were spent in quiet agony.

His ears rang, his throat burned, and his temple throbbed like the drums of war. As he marched down a cobbled path leading from Maiev’s tent to the main square, he focused on the sound of hooves clicking against stone, and hoped in vain that he could focus his discomfort away. It was mornings like these which made Illidan nearly savour his blindness and wish, not for the first time, that his other senses could be as easily shut off.

The trouble, of course, was that Illidan had more often mornings like these than not. By now he should have become used to the pain, or the fatigue, or at least the dissociation. He certainly should have become used to the way that the camp buzzed constantly with the energy of a warring hive, or to its denizens, who still found the time to stop and stare whenever he passed. It took him weeks to notice how they gave no such attention to his demon hunters, but that was no surprise; after all, the Illidari had already paid their dues in the war against the Legion, and Illidan sorely wished he could say the same.

He was profoundly irritated, as he was every morning, that it took so little to remind him how firmly his kin held onto their distrust. It seemed to spread throughout the camp, like a pox for which he alone lacked immunity, and despite his arrangement with Maiev, a quick trip from her tent to the courtyard was enough to plague him with whispers—perhaps imagined, perhaps not—that he was no saviour of Azeroth. Still, he walked through the camp with his head held high, for Illidan was not without his pride, and the burden of his guilt was a distraction that he and his band of demon hunters could hardly afford.

During the day, he preferred to busy himself with the Illidari, and the champions that Khadgar had recruited to their cause. Ten thousand years of practice gave Illidan a convenient mastery in the art of burying thoughts, and buried they would remain—at least until the sun sank beyond the peaks of Highmountain, and his nightmares returned to drag them violently back to the surface. By then he would be holding Maiev against his chest, where her warmth and scent could anchor him in reality until the dreams saw fit to fade away.

Illidan winced as his hoof struck against a raised cobblestone. He looked around, relieved to find that nobody had seen his blunder. Illidan was sore, and distracted, and the last thing he needed today was ridicule if he were to survive the morning with enough strength to make it through the night to come.

At first Illidan had tried to deny just how much he dreaded the nights he slept alone, when Maiev led her Wardens on any number of offensives around the broken isles. Rather than join his Illidari in the barracks, Illidan would fly off into the darkness and scan the Broken Shore for a faraway ledge or cliffside, somewhere dead and miserable and decidedly out of sight. He rarely slept, surrounded by the torturous cacophony of Sargeras’ army and his own incessant thoughts. Instead, once he settled himself on the cold ground, Illidan would try to recall the names and faces of those who had died for him: his fellow sorcerers of the Moon Guard, the broken Ashtongue, and, on the nights when his self-loathing was at its peak, all the lives lost in the aftermath of the Sundering. When Illidan chose to forego sleep for fear of the tricks his mind might play, he would pull out an old arcane tome that Khadgar had lent him, and study the ancient words until the sun rose with the promise of a new day’s distractions.

Tonight would be one such night. He and Maiev had been woken by a frantic tapping on the flap of her tent, and were met with a Legionfall messenger’s breathless request that Maiev and her Wardens travel to Aszuna at once. She had donned her armour in a hurry. The Legion was getting bolder by the day, and several regions in the Broken Isles had come under attack already. Maiev had left the tent as quickly as she could, grabbing her glaives and running out the entrance without so much as a goodbye.

Now Illidan walked down the steps of Deliverance Point alone, past the soldiers and lackeys scrambling about to get their own affairs in order before making off for Aszuna themselves. They paused for a moment to watch him pass, their eyes lingering, their voices dying out to a murmur, but Illidan paid them no attention as he marched in the direction of the clearing where he trained his Illidari. He intended to send a few of them along with the Wardens; their spectral sight was sharper than most, and their ability to sniff out demonic influences had been invaluable during the few invasions that the Legion had already attempted. Once he and Maiev had come to some sort of understanding, their respective forces worked together more often than not.

(So far no one had dared ask about it, but between Mishka’s pointed looks, Modera’s reddened cheeks and VanCleef’s poorly-concealed laughter whenever he and the Warden passed by, Illidan was quite sure that the entire camp had learned of his and Maiev’s reconciliation.)

Illidan spent the rest of the walk lost in thought. He would have passed the training ground completely, if it hadn’t been for a pair of raised voices that cut abruptly through the haze. As he retraced his steps, rounding the corner that opened out onto the training ground, he saw Kor’vas standing rigid, fists clenched, staring angrily at another of his Illidari. Her target, a recruit named Aralora from one of his final Demon Hunter batches back in Outlands, stood tall under Kor’vas’ gaze. The training ground was empty but for the two of them; each faced the other in a shaky standoff, frozen just long enough for Illidan to rear back and keep out of sight. A scowl distorted Aralora’s face. Strands of turquoise hair escaped from where it was tied loosely back. Her tattoos glowed, a vivid turquoise to match, shining brightly against her dark, ashen skin.

“What the hell is wrong with you lately?” Kor’vas snapped. Her weapons lay on the ground, abandoned.

“Tell me, Kor’vas,” Aralora shot back. “If you suddenly discovered that your daughter was not, in fact, killed by the Legion, but instead spent the last three decades thinking you abandoned her, and also happens to be _staying at this very camp,_ how would you react?” Aralora threw her own glaives to the floor. “You’ll have to forgive me for being a little testy.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Kor’vas mocked. “Your daughter is alive, how terrible.” She drew a dagger from her belt. “Get it together. You’ll both be dead if we can’t push the Legion back.”

Aralora let out a growl. “You want to know what’s wrong? Fine.” She sent her warglaives clattering across the dirt with a kick. “I can’t do this anymore, Kor’vas. My own daughter doesn’t recognize me. I’m not sure I even recognize me, after everything we’ve done.” She wiped her sweaty hands against the worn leather of her trousers. “I’m finished.”

It was a small thing, an insignificant thing, but Illidan felt the tiniest flicker of annoyance. This was stupid. He should have stepped out and sent Kor'vas off as soon as he’d arrived, instead of skulking behind the training ground like a child afraid to be scolded. He had half a mind to reveal himself, but his hooves felt rooted to the ground by some invisible, unbreakable force; he remained concealed, and Kor’vas barked her mocking laughter uninterrupted.

“Don’t be a fool, Lora. There’s no going back, for any of us.” She gave her dagger a little flick. “You want out? Ask Maiev. I’m sure she’ll put you right back into the Vault if you ask nicely enough.”

That struck a chord, somewhere under his skin. _Maiev wouldn’t_ , he thought. _Sira, maybe. But not Maiev, not anymore._ He watched as Aralora brought her hand not so gingerly to her forehead.

“Even you can’t be this deaf,” she said, with a jerky shake of the head. “You’ve heard what Illidan was responsible for in Outland, while we were sheltered away in the Black Temple.”

Illidan’s heart skipped a beat.

Aralora carried on, oblivious. “It’s one thing to follow Issari. She’s one of us. She _cares_ about us, and she was kept in the dark just like we were. But now that I know what really happened outside the temple walls, now that my daughter is here, watching, even if she doesn't know who I am…” There was a pause, until Aralora whipped her hand away angrily. “We all fought alongside Illidan. We’re just as responsible for what he did.”

Illidan could see, with his spectral sight, that the three of them were very much alone. Beyond them, the training ground sprawled out rocky and empty; there were dozens more of his demon hunters at Deliverance Point, all of whom were likely still asleep. They were alone, he was certain of it.

So how could he feel the weight of all the Illidari, standing where Aralora stood?

“Watch your tongue,” Kor’vas warned, “before someone cuts it off.”

Illidan almost wished someone would. He’d already been given his daily dose of humility, and with Maiev’s impending absence, the idea of facing the judgement of his own people was more than he was equipped to handle.

“For years we’ve justified pursuing any means necessary to fight the legion,” Aralora continued. “We remind everyone of how much we’ve sacrificed every chance we get. But we’ve sacrificed others, too—and for what?”

“For what?” Kor’vas hissed. “You know exactly what. You saw the full might of the Legion when you transformed, we all did.”

There was no stopping her, now. “I saw an unbeatable army,” Aralora shouted back. “Yet here we stand, with the strongest army Azeroth has ever seen, and they’re all here by choice! The best chance we’ve ever had to fight the Legion, and we didn’t have to coerce, subjugate, betray—”

“Quiet!” Kor’vas shrieked.

It was as if Kor’vas’ command had come from Illidan himself. Her voice rang out across the training grounds; birds ceased their chirping, and waves crashed against the shore in the distance. Had he stood still long enough, Illidan was sure that he could have heard the trees growing. “You’re losing perspective,” Kor’vas whispered.

Aralora wrinkled her nose, but when she spoke her voice was calm and measured. “That’s the thing about perspective,” she said cooly. “Take one step to the side, and everything changes.”

Enough was enough. Illidan revealed himself, stepping into the clearing; Kor’vas’ eyes widened behind her blindfold and she sheathed her knife immediately. Aralora, who only moments ago was standing stubborn and proud, was pale as death.

“Lord Illidan, I—” Kor’vas started, but Illidan cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Pack your bags,” he said to her. “You’ll be accompanying Maiev and her Wardens to Aszuna.”

“But my Lord—”

“Go,” he repeated, turning to face the other demon hunter. “I wish to speak to Aralora, privately.”

Kor’vas swallowed and shifted her gaze to Aralora. She knit her eyebrows in concern, but she nodded once, hesitantly. Illidan’s heart clenched. He didn’t know what Kor’vas thought he might do, but as she scrambled to pick up her warglaives, he genuinely wondered if maybe it were fear, not faith, that drove his Illidari.

“As you wish,” she said. With one last worried glance at the demon hunter by her side, she was aloft with a powerful gust of leathery wings, soaring up above the mountain path.

Illidan looked down at Aralora. Was she afraid of him, too? Or merely disgusted at what he had made them all become? Had more of his Illidari shifted their perspective, as she had? He thought back to Outland, and the weeks leading up to the fall. Had all his plans and ambitions come crashing down with Maiev’s final strike? Or had the real moment of his defeat been weeks earlier, when he began to abandon the needs of his supporters in pursuit of his own?

Illidan swallowed the bad taste in his mouth. He couldn’t blame them for having lost faith, really. He hadn’t lifted a finger to stop the Horde and the Alliance from spreading through Outland, retaking the strongholds that his followers held so dear. He realized now that that had been a mistake.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He looked down at the demon hunter before him, so much smaller now than she had been seconds ago. He had never confided in Aralora, in all the years that he’d known her; in fact, it occurred to him that he barely knew her at all. Aralora had been a fresh recruit, one he could easily pawn off on Vandel or Varedis for training. She had slipped his mind almost entirely from then on.

 _Issari is one of us_ , she had said. _She cares._

The old Illidan didn’t care for the personal touch.

Perhaps that’s what killed him, in the end.

So when he saw Aralora close her eyes and brace herself for the harsh words to come, Illidan put a hand on her shoulder and asked, “You say you’ve seen your daughter?”

Her shoulders were tensed, and Illidan didn’t know if the gesture had come off as comforting or menacing. Aralora exhaled as if she had been holding her breath.

“My lord, what I said—”

“There will be time for that.” Illidan squeezed her shoulder, just a little, in a way that he hoped would convey some kind of sympathy. “For now, tell me about your daughter. She’s here, at Deliverance Point?”

Aralora stared at his hand, warily, as if she expected it to burst into flame at any moment. “Yes,” she managed, and Illidan was relieved to feel her relax somewhat. “Seleria, one of Khadgar’s champions. I believe you’ve met.”

Illidan was quite sure he didn’t know a Seleria and was about to say as much, but Aralora continued. “I hear she goes mostly by Sekki, now.”

“Sekki,” he murmured to himself. Pieces clicked into place, and pictures began to form into a memory. _The aegis. Mephistroth._ “Yes, she accompanied Maiev and I into the Cathedral. I…”

_I stood by and watched while she cried over her companion’s body. I was too preoccupied with Mephistroth to reach them in time. I failed her. I failed myself._

“I admire her courage,” he said instead.

Aralora stood quietly for a long time, mouth open as if to speak, but only the sound of her shallow breathing escaped her. She bit her lip, and when she spoke, she avoided Illidan’s eyes diligently. “I walked right past her, and she said nothing.” She stared at her open palms, and clenched them shut. She looked back up with a sigh. “I don’t know how to feel. I know how important our mission is, how much you’ve sacrificed, no matter what I said before. But still, I...”

Her words died out on her tongue. She pressed her lips angrily into a thin line.

“Four times,” said Aralora, and was he imagining the slight quiver in her voice? “I nearly died four times during my transformation into an Illidari, but I held on, because there was nothing more important to me than stopping the Legion. I need you to understand that, my lord. Nothing.”

Something about his title falling from her lips made him sick inside, but Illidan pushed away his discomfort and nodded. “Until now,” he finished.

“I love her,” Aralora choked through clenched teeth. “I’d give up anything for her, even myself, even the cause.” She closed her eyes, ashamed beneath her blindfold. “But now that she’s here, alive, all she’ll see is a woman who chose to become a demon and leave her daughter for dead, instead of staying by her side when she needed her mother most.”

As she stood there, trying vainly to hide how her body trembled with the weight of her words, Illidan realized how foolish he had been to believe that he could lead an army with nothing but fear and the promise of vengeance. How could he have ever thought that desperation and anger were enough, when his own followers were willing to abandon him for the ones they loved?

“You’re right,” said Illidan, as much to himself as to her.

Aralora blinked up at him, stunned. “My lord?”

Illidan grit his teeth. What was that old saying?

_If you love something, set it free._

“If you wish to leave the Illidari, I won’t intervene,” he said. His voice came out gruff, and sterner than he would have liked.

_If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, they never were._

Aralora’s eyes widened, and her trembling only seemed to intensify. Guilt swallowed him. This was his fault; this fear was Illidan’s gift to those who risked everything to follow him. “As for what you said earlier,” Illidan continued, steeling himself, “hold your principles close. When we abandon them, we lose sight of why we fight in the first place.”

Illidan watched as Aralora opened her mouth as if to respond, and found that he was dreading her answer. Would she stay, grateful that he had given her the choice? Or would she be the first to leave, called away by a power even greater than his, greater than the Legion’s?

At last, she unclenched her fists, and Illidan was dismayed to see thin green marks where her nails had broken skin.

“Everything I did was for Seleria,” she confessed, “but Kor’vas is right. I can’t undo what I’ve become, even if I wished.” She looked up, meeting Illidan’s eyes with only the slightest traces of hesitation. “For better or for worse, I am an Illidari now. And we Illidari will stop at nothing to protect our world, isn’t that what you said?”

Illidan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yes.”

“I’ve been alive for so long,” said Aralora, rubbing at the green welts forming on her palms, “and yet I’ve seen so little. I wish I could deny how weak my feelings for Azeroth really are.” She paused. Closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, and opened them again. “Seleria is my world, now. And if she’s decided to fight the Legion to protect Azeroth, then I will fight the Legion to protect her.”

Illidan felt—not relief, exactly, but the lifting of a small weight from what he had come to understand as his conscience. She’d chosen to stay. Not as a last resort, not because it was her only option after the Legion had taken everything. She could have left, could have joined Khadgar and his forces and perhaps reunited with her daughter, eventually. It mattered little, from a tactical perspective; the loss of one Illidari would not make or break their lines.

But it mattered to him, somehow, that he had given Aralora a choice, and that she had chosen to stay.

Illidan stood up straighter, and gave a single, slight inclination of the head.

“Go with Kor’vas to Aszuna, then,” he said, and it sounded less like an order than a request. “I had planned to send Issari, but Kor’vas seemed worried about you. It would be good to set her mind at ease.”

He might have been imagining the slight curve at the side of Aralora’s mouth, a simple projection of the expression he wished her to have. “Of course,” she said. “As you wish, Lord Illidan.”

She stepped away from him, eyes scanning the ground for her fallen warglaives. As Illidan watched her bend to pick them up, he saw the resemblance for a moment—and suddenly it was not Aralora crouched on the floor but Sekki, hunched over Vanessa’s dying body, her shaking hands clutched around a crimson vial that crackled and whirled under his spectral sight, a vortex of arcane magic with the trademark taint of fel. He blinked, and it was gone; they were alone in the training ground, Aralora poised with her warglaives recovered at her side.  

_Curious._

As she flared her wings and prepared to take her leave, Illidan’s voice echoed through the frigid seaside air.

“Aralora,” he called, and she craned her neck to face him.

_We may not survive this war. Take what you can, while there’s still time._

“Your daughter carries a red flask at her waist,” he said. “Pay special attention to it next time you see her. I suspect the two of you may have more in common than you think.”

He did not know what reaction he had expected from her, nor what kind of vindication he sought in giving her this information. But Aralora was speechless, her eyes drawn, and she looked so tired that Illidan nearly regretted bringing it up at all. She looked at him for a long while; Illidan could see the gears turning in her mind, and wondered briefly if he’d made a mistake.

“Thank you.” Her voice was clear and strong, now; she took off into the sky without waiting for a response, looking back only once before gliding away towards the barracks.

It was over, just like that.  

Illidan walked the steps back to camp in idle silence. He didn’t dwell on the conversation, opting to file it away for later and focus instead on the day’s tasks. He stopped by the mess for only a moment, taking breakfast alone and in as little time as he could manage. By the time the sun shone high in the sky, the Illidari training ground was full, and Illidan allowed himself to shut down his wandering thoughts, leaving just enough room to observe the skirmishes playing out in front of him. He let Issari run the drills, and watched intently—perhaps a little resentfully—as she coached and encouraged them, correcting their form as his Illidari struck blow after deadly blow. He paid special mind not to read into the flickering of their expressions, when he would stop the training to compliment them on a convincing feint or a masterfully-executed strike. After a time he too joined in, sparring against the few adepts who dared to face him.

When the light of day began to fade, and Illidan’s body had grown tired from exercise, he gave gave the signal for Issari to end the session. He addressed the Illidari together, as he usually did, with a speech on fighting the Legion that he could barely remember once he’d turned and found himself halfway to the barracks. The day had gone by in a blur. He felt Maiev’s absence achingly, a deep pang in his chest that pulsed like a fresh bruise. His confrontation with Aralora had drained him, and he wanted badly to curl up in Maiev’s tent, with her body pressed against his and where the smoky scent of her hair could drown out his other senses.

He turned left at the main square, past the mess hall and the forges, uncomfortably aware of the dull, throbbing ache that radiated from behind his eyes. He took a seat at the cliffside and gazed out at the violent sea, and at the floating mass that was Dalaran peeking through clouds in the distance. Beyond lay Aszuna, and though he could not see it through the mist, he strained his senses in an attempt to catch something, anything, to ground him in the knowledge that it still stood safe and sound. Maiev and Kor’vas would have reached Nar’thalas hours ago. The speaking stone he had bound to Kor’vas lay cool and smooth in his pocket; that he hadn’t heard from them was probably a good thing.

Illidan closed his eyes and inhaled the sharp seaside air. He was too tired to fly out to any of his usual nighttime spots; he was close to camp, sure, but the grass was soft and the waves were loud enough to drown out the few thoughts that clung stubbornly to the forefront of his mind.

 _Perhaps tonight would be different,_ he hoped. _Perhaps tonight, I can—_

He was interrupted by a searing pain between the eyebrows. It burned, excruciatingly bright, and when Illidan opened his eyes he was blinded by a light that seemed to radiate from his forehead. He doubled over, catching himself on the edge of the cliffside. A wave of nausea overtook him and Illidan retched, a vile yellow liquid which splashed messily at the foot of the cliff below. His vision swam. The ocean churned violently against the shore, but the golden rays emanating from his reflection were impossible to miss.

Illidan grit his teeth and dug his nails into the soft earth. He covered his forehead with one hand, squinting at the beams of light that shone through the gaps in his fingers.

_What is this?_

Illidan bit his lip as the pain intensified.

An image of the Black Temple flashed before him; the portal room, where he had once projected his soul into the twisting nether and sent it to Argus. Yes, he remembered now. There had been an elder Naaru, who had promised him absolution and redemption, had it not?

_Xe’ra. This has to be her doing._

Illidan pressed his palm harder against his brow. He recalled how the Naaru’s sigil had burned in that very spot all those years ago, and for the briefest of instants he remembered the vision the Naaru had projected into him: he himself, with wings of golden light, tattoos shining beautifully with holy energy, leading the Light’s army against the monstrosities of the void.

 _No,_ he struggled to think, through the haze that clouded him. _That cannot be my fate. Not yet._

There had not been time to contemplate the elder Naaru’s words before Illidan’s defeat at the Black Temple, when he would have liked nothing more than for a divine being to declare him a misunderstood hero. But Illidan had spent nearly a decade in the Nether, with only his mind and the twisted souls he’d devoured for company; he’d had no Naaru there to guide him, to affirm his actions and decisions, or convince him that all he’d done had been worth it. There had been no Naaru to save him from an eternity surrounded by the wailing of tormented spirits, whose voices never quieted, who howled endlessly, begging him, pleading with him to undo what he had done, or to release their spirits somehow and let them rest for good.

 _I suffered without the Light._ Illidan’s mind spun, capturing him in a current of memories both past and present. _I changed without the Light,_ he repeated, _and so I shall prevail without the Light as well!_

It had taken him all the years he had spent in the nether, the slow, endless trickle of time in felfire and brimstone, for his earlier convictions to slip away. The Legion had to be stopped, yes, but was there truly no alternative to the death and destruction he had wrought? Had he really been so arrogant, to have assumed that his chosen course was the best anyone could hope for?

He had been a fool. Suspended in this purgatory, Illidan finally understood how the pressure for time had clouded his judgement, and forced him to act in the only way he had ever known: by considering thousands of lives expendable, a small price to pay for a chance at stopping the Legion for good. But what time he had lacked then was more than made up in the Nether, and as it crawled by like the slow, persistent beating of waves against a rocky shore, he realized with a sinking in his stomach that he had deserved this. If only Maiev had gotten to him sooner. If only she’d killed him ten thousand years ago when she’d had the chance, before he’d become...this.

 _Maiev._ The pain was worsening now, and Illidan leaned forward to clasp his second hand over the first. _Maiev helped me survive the Nether. She will help me survive this, too._

She had seen all along what he was, and had stopped at nothing to bring him to justice. She had lost ten thousand years of her life guarding him, and yet she followed him tirelessly, first to the Tomb of Sargeras and then into Outland itself. He had detained her, killed her watchers, subjected her to terrible conditions within the Warden’s cage in Shadowmoon Valley. Still her perseverance had never wavered, and he had both hated and feared her for it. But in the nether, with an eternity of damnation ahead of him and the growing sense of guilt eating away at the last shreds of sanity he possessed, it had occurred to him for the first time that perhaps that was exactly what he needed. For what kind of absolution could a Naaru possibly give, compared to redemption in the eyes of the one whose very life’s purpose was to hold him accountable for all the wrong he had done?

From that moment on, the voices had howled a little softer, and the harsh green glare of the Nether had shone just a little less bright. Illidan had spent his remaining time in the Nether thinking of the mistakes he had made, and how he could make them right, given the chance. The Legion was still out there. Sargeras still needed to be destroyed. His focus had been too narrow, before. There must have been another way, a better way, and if it would keep the incessant voices at bay, then Illidan was determined to find it.

And if, in his twisted, incorporeal state, he had visions of Maiev of a questionable nature, then he supposed there must have been a reason for that too.

He felt the pain ebbing ever so slightly, and latched onto the thought with his last ounce of strength. He conjured a memory from two nights ago, when he sat comfortably in Maiev’s tent, legs crossed, back leaning against the wooden chest where they stored their armour, as he slowly turned the pages of Khadgar’s dusty tome. He pictured Maiev sitting upon the chest behind him, sharpening her umbra crescents, her leg idly brushing against his shoulder while she ran the whetstone along the blades. He forced himself to embrace the sound of complete silence, save for the rhythmic grind of stone on metal, and their calm, easy breathing.

As Illidan slowed his breaths to match, the pain began to subside; it was a slow process, but Illidan remained steadfast, and kept his picture of Maiev clear in his mind. Whatever this Naaru was trying to tell him, he wanted none of it. Let Maiev be his redemption, Light be damned.

In his concentration, Illidan almost missed the warm presence approaching from behind, and the sound of footsteps muffled by the grass. In a moment of pure irrationality he thought at first that Maiev had returned, that perhaps the invasion in Aszuna had ended just as quickly as it had begun. He turned, uncovering his forehead, half expecting his eyes to land on shiny silver armour and sleek, white hair.

He was half correct. Velen stood some feet away, stately as ever; his long, white beard billowed in the wind, obscuring whatever expression graced his features. Illidan felt a flash of irritation. Of course; the prophet must have seen the beams of light from earlier, and had come to investigate. This was precisely why he never allowed himself to sleep this close to camp.

Illidan returned his gaze to the reflection below. The light had all but dimmed, now, and the pain had receded to a phantom throb that ghosted behind his eyes. If the Prophet wanted something from him then so be it, but Illidan was hardly eager to discuss what had just happened. He plucked a blade of grass from the cracks between the rocks and rolled it between his fingers. He didn’t look up, not even at the sound of rustling fabric as Velen approached and took a seat next to him. From the corner of his eye Illidan could see the draenei tuck his legs beneath his robes, and the weak flutter of his beard as he exhaled.

“Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” asked Velen.

Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating the sky in a flash of green. Illidan wrinkled his nose, and tried to act unaffected. “Not really.”

Velen let out a soft chuckle. “But it is,” he said, his voice light and bemused. “Perhaps the clouds hang heavy, and storms rage on endlessly below.” He tilted his head ever so slightly towards Illidan, his eyebrows raised in a knowing arch. “But high in the sky, beyond the darkness and the turmoil, there is a light that shines brighter than any other.”

Illidan scoffed. It seemed that Velen had decided on the metaphorical approach, and it was best he put a stop to it before his irritation got the best of him. “You’ve missed your true calling as a weather-reader,” he sneered, picking at the blade of grass he’d now rolled around his finger. “You’re wasted as a prophet, but I’m sure it’s not too late to change your path.”

Velen’s cloudy eyes found his. “It never is,” said the draenei, each word slow, heavy, deliberate. “But you already know this, do you not?”

Illidan had nothing to say to that, and so he sat in silence. Whatever it was that Velen wished to talk about, Illidan hoped that he would get it over with and leave him in peace. There was an awkwardness between them, almost tangible in the night, like two children of very old friends who were meeting for the first time. Illidan was halfway considering retiring to Maiev’s empty tent when the Prophet spoke.

“Have you ever been to the Exodar?” He asked. His voice sounded distant, raspy, like every syllable was painful to sound.

“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Illidan said. “I was...” He faltered. _Killed. Defeated. Destroyed._ “Indisposed, shortly after its arrival.”

The sky sparked with electricity, causing Velen’s beard to rise slightly with the static. He was unperturbed, sitting still, a picture of serenity in the middle of chaos.

“It is unlike anything you have ever seen,” said Velen. “A marvel of Eredar engineering, a relic of a civilization long destroyed. You should visit sometime, you and your...Illidari.”

Illidan grumbled, low in his throat. “I’m afraid that unless the Legion is involved, it’s unlikely I will ever get the chance.”

“The Legion is very much involved,” said Velen casually. “They attacked it to keep us from finding Xe’ra.

He felt it again: a slight throb of pain, and the powerful urge to touch the spot on his forehead where the elder Naaru’s sigil had burned. Illidan hadn’t thought his hatred of Xe’ra could worsen any further.

“I must confess,” said Velen, clasping both hands together. “I have a certain...lack of knowledge when it comes to you and your people.”

“Most people do,” said Illidan impassively.

“I hear that each one of you possesses a demon inside, bound but not dead, which threatens to consume you at any moment.”

“This is true, yes.”

“It must take a great deal of strength to contain such a being,” Velen said.

Illidan glanced sideways at the Prophet. “Why are you here, old man?”

At this, Velen took a deep breath, and when he exhaled it was as if decades of life itself were leaving his body. His cloudy eyes pierced the darkness. The Prophet’s hands, gnarled and wrinkly, clenched into fists that wouldn’t fully close.

“After the Legion attacked the Exodar, before we found a way to speak to Xe’ra, I held a dying Eredar in my arms.” Velen closed his eyes; a warning, perhaps, that they were to be here for some time.

“Rakeesh, he called himself,” Velen continued. “He and his demons brought destruction to the Exodar, the likes of which we had not seen since we crashed here on Azeroth. He destroyed O’ros, and with it, any hope we had of communicating with the Light’s Heart.”

Illidan wondered where this story was headed. Did he hope to make Illidan feel guilty for playing a role, however small, in the destruction of his vessel? Did he invite the Illidari to the Exodar so that they could help rebuild it, and undo the damage their leader had unwittingly helped cause?

“This Eredar was my son.”

_Oh._

“I had thought him killed by the Legion long ago. After many years, I had finally made peace with his death. Seeing him again, as an Eredar, was almost too much to bear.”

“A familiar tale,” Illidan mumbled, and when Velen raised an eyebrow, Illidan was embarrassed to realize that he had spoken out loud. “Never mind,” he said. “Please. Continue.”

Slowly, the eyebrow lowered, and Velen turned his gaze back out towards the sea. “By the time I realized who he was, it was too late. I tried to save him, but despite my warnings, one of the Archdruids had already dealt him a fatal wound.” He paused, his breaths shallow and quick. “I could not save Rakeesh,” Velen said, softly. “And now I spend my nights wondering how much of my son remained. Did he watch me, from inside himself, as his own father set his executioners upon him? Or was the eredar who died that day my son in body alone?”

For the third time today, Illidan found himself at a loss for words. Perhaps Velen had heard about his conversation with Aralora, or had sensed it intuitively; it was the only explanation he could think of as to why Velen would come to him seeking sympathy, and it was as poor as it was unlikely.

“The demon that rests within you,” Velen pressed. “That rests within each of your Illidari. What happens to you if it takes control?”

Illidan wrinkled his nose. He could live for centuries more, and still he would never forget the stench of the Black Temple after his first wave of Illidari were created. Hundreds of elves, lying bloody and lifeless on the ground, consumed by the fel and driven mad with power in their final moments of lucidity. For a moment he thought of lying to Velen, of concealing the ugly truth. But the look in Velen’s eyes was determined, and reminded him that the Prophet had probably seen more death than even he.

“They die,” Illidan said at last. “They die, or become possessed and must be...terminated.” He plucked idly at another blade of grass. “Maintaining control of such a beast requires tremendous effort. Only a handful of those who wish to become demon hunters survive.”

Velen pursed his lips.

“So my son, Rakeesh…”

“I cannot imagine the willpower it would take, to resist the impulses of the Legion for so long.” Illidan’s eyes found Velen’s. “To resist for millennia…” He paused. “To my knowledge, it’s never been done. However much this Eredar may have resembled your son, it’s unlikely that any of him remained.”

Velen closed his eyes, peacefully, and his whole body seemed to relax. “I sensed a darkness in you, Illidan,” he said. “But where there is darkness, I have also come to see light.”

“I don’t believe in the light,” Illidan murmured.

Velen cracked one eye open, unconvinced, as if to dare Illidan to deny what had happened to him only moments before. “I will admit, I too was surprised that Xe’ra named you as her chosen one. But I am not talking about that.” He smiled, crooked, weary. “You may not be a champion of the Light, as we know it. But that does not mean you can’t still find light within yourself, or bring light to others, as you just did for me.”

Illidan winced reflexively. “Your vision is failing you, old man,” he said. “You’re wrong.”

Velen leaned back and let out a long, deep breath. “Perhaps,” he said nonchalantly. “Or perhaps you do not see yourself as we do.”

Illidan’s nostrils flared as he snapped his head up sharply. “Do not think,” he growled, “for even a moment, that I am not painfully aware of how you all see me.”

Calmly, and a little too readily, Velen raised both hands. “I apologize,” he rasped. “I did not mean to offend.” He smiled again, the same wry, crooked smile as before. “Perhaps a change of topic is on order?”

Illidan merely grunted, and ripped out another blade of grass.

“I hear that you once tried to create a portal to Argus,” Velen continued, unfazed. “I would—”

The rest of Velen’s sentence went unnoticed as Illidan felt another sharp pain, this time against his thigh. Something was hot, too hot. Searing, scalding, scorching—

_The speaking stone._

Illidan shoved his hands into his pants pocket and pulled out the stone. It glowed like hot coal, and Illidan had to hold it with his nails to keep from burning himself.

“Excuse me,” Illidan said, and scrambled hastily to his feet. Velen was unperturbed, still comfortably cross-legged, smiling through his beard which flowed serenely in the breeze. Illidan spread his wings and took flight without another word.

He landed not-so-gently on the rocky beach below. He made sure he was alone, ridding the beach of any wandering fel murlocs before he held the stone out in front of him.

“Elun’falah,” he whispered, and the stone cooled immediately. He waited with bated breath as an image began to form; first the silhouette, then the horns, then the face of Kor’vas.

‘My Lord!” Her voice was choppy, distorted through the stone. “Lord Illi—” She cut out. “Can— hear me?”

Illidan lifted the stone up to his face. “What is it, Kor’vas?”

She looked pale, panicked. “We intercepted a—” static. “Demons outside Shackle’s Cove.”

Illidan gripped the stone tightly and infused it with more magic. Kor’vas’ face remained distorted as it had before. “—Ambush,” her voice cried out. “The Legion is on their—”

Illidan bit his lip until it bled. “—to Val’Sharah! Hurry—”

The stone went dark.

An ambush.

He had sent his people into _an ambush._

Fear gripped him, and he shoved the stone unceremoniously back into his pocket.

_Maiev._

She had faced ambushes before, he reminded himself. She has faced down hundreds of demons without so much as a flinch. Kor’vas and Aralora would be safe, so long as they stayed by her side.

The fear didn’t abate as much as it should have. He grunted, casting his eyes out over the ocean, to where the shores of Aszuna might have been. It would have to be good enough, for now.

He needed to get to Val’sharah before the Legion arrived. He needed to find Khadgar.

Illidan sped off like a bullet. It was late, now; too late for Khadgar to be found corralling his champions outside the command centre. As he glided up towards camp, he saw the main square lying empty, save for the few Legionfall guards standing watch in the night. Undeterred, he swerved left, sailing past the barracks to where the commanders’ tents were set up along the cliffside.

Even the grass failed to muffle the deep _thud_ of his landing. Illidan tore at the flimsy canvas, shoving the flap unceremoniously to the right and crouching down to peer inside.

“Khadgar!” he shouted. “I need a portal.”

A blue light burst from the tent, illuminating the inside to reveal Khadgar, sitting up in his nightclothes and holding Atiesh in a white-knuckled grip. On his face was an expression of pure annoyance.

“Illidan...” Khadgar said with a yawn. “How many times have I explained this?” He rubbed his eyes sleepily with his free hand, as he leaned back against the meager pillow that decorated his bedroll. “We cannot rush repairs on the mage tower. Not with the nether disruptor eating through so many of our resources.” He waved his finger, and the tent flap flung itself back into place. Illidan tore it aside.

“Would I barge in here for something trivial?” Illidan barked, flinging aside a scrap of canvas that had caught against his nails. “I just received word from Kor’vas. Aszuna was a distraction. The Legion is headed to Val’Sharah as we speak.”

Khadgar’s fatigue seemed to vanish in an instant, and Illidan was reminded of how, beneath the grey hair and wrinkles, was trapped a much younger man. Khadgar’s grip on Atiesh tightened as he leaned against the staff, pulling himself effortlessly to his feet. Determination and worry creased his brows. “Can Maiev not head them off?”

Illidan shook his head. “They’re on their way, but it’ll take time.”

Khadgar pursed his lips. “Then there’s no time to waste,” he conceded, pushing past Illidan and stepping into the cold night air. “Gather your Illidari. I’ll have a portal open by the time you return.”

_Thank you, Kor’vas._

He felt a swell of pride. If he hadn’t sent her and Aralora along with Maiev, Illidan most certainly would have arrived too late. Without them—

“Khadgar, wait,” Illidan said, holding back. “Two of my Illidari are in Aszuna as well. Can you spare a couple of your champions until they catch up with us?”

Khadgar tapped Atiesh against the ground. “I’ll put out the call.”

Illidan nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and launched himself into the night.

 

* * *

 

To Illidan’s great pride, the Illidari were assembled and ready in front of the command centre in record time. Issari stood at the front, focused intensely on twisting a strand of curly ginger hair around her finger. They were all tense, Illidan noticed, as he scanned his eyes across the group. They shouldn’t be. They had been training for this for months.

Well, perhaps not this exactly.

“I understand you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here at this hour,” Illidan said. His voice boomed across the silent square. All eyes were upon him, even those hidden beneath blindfolds of fraying scraps. Illidan stood taller. He was a leader. It was time to remind himself of that.

“As some of you know, yesterday morning I sent two of our people on a joint mission with the Wardens, to defeat the Legion forces encroaching on Aszuna.”

There were a few short-lived murmurs, and Illidan waited for silence before he continued.

“Kor’vas has sent a warning that the attack on Aszuna is a distraction, to make way for a larger invasion in Val’Sharah.” He paused, letting his words wash over them. “The Legion intends to spread us thin, so that they can corrupt and destroy whatever they please. But the Legion does not expect us. They have ambushed our allies, and now they will be ambushed in return!”

He nodded to Issari, who stepped out from the crowd and raised her glaives in salute. The Illidari parted around her, giving her a clear path to the forefront.

“Khadgar has conjured a portal to Val’Sharah. He awaits us inside, with two of his champions who will be joining the fight. Treat them as you would treat one of us.”

Illidan narrowed his eyes. The crowd was fixated more on Issari than they were on him, but he shoved the thought aside for now. His voice boomed, louder than before.

“The Legion thinks they have caught us unaware, that we are not prepared for their attacks.” He held his hand in front of him, and clenched it into a fist. “The Legion is wrong.” He snarled. “Go now, my Illidari, and show these vile abominations the meaning of vengeance!”

There was a cheer from the crowd. Issari marched forward first, and the others followed; Illidan turned and made for the command centre entrance himself once she reached his side. Past the archway, Khadgar stood behind a shimmering orb that flickered in and out of reality. He nodded once to Issari and, at her command, the troops began to filter through.

Illidan squashed the wave of irritation rising from his stomach. He could not blame Issari for stepping up as a leader in his absence; if it had not been her, someone else would have taken up the role. But still he felt the familiar flicker of jealousy, as he watched his army filter through the portal at the command of another.

He was so distracted by the marching of his troops that Illidan had nearly forgotten about Khadgar’s champions. He noticed them just as the last Illidari stepped through the shimmering blue ring, shadowy figures which stood off to the side, invisible to the naked eye but faintly outlined in his spectral sight. He turned deliberately to face them, acknowledging their presence through the stealth.

Rogues. Three of them.

“It would seem that the Uncrowned has eyes everywhere,” Khadgar said, voice straining as magic surged from Atiesh and into the portal. “These two Shadowblades were the first to heed my call. Conveniently, you’ve fought with them before.”

Illidan frowned. “There are three people here.”

A dim cackling echoed from the shadows, as one of the rogues dropped their stealth and stepped into the center of the chamber. A Forsaken… Sam, if he remembered correctly. Behind her, the other two dropped their stealth in turn.

“Two shadowblades…” Sam sneered, “and an _escort_.”

“Bodyguard,” the VanCleef girl spat through her bandana. Her cheeks were flushed red, though whether it was from embarrassment or anger, Illidan couldn’t tell.

“You remember Sam and Vanessa,” Khadgar said, as a bead of sweat dripped slowly down the side of his brow. “And Sekki, of course.”

Illidan’s heart skipped a beat.

_Seleria._

He was careful not to spare more than a glance. At a distance, her resemblance to Aralora was superficial; both had turquoise hair and markings, but whereas Aralora’s skin was deep and dark, Seleria’s was a pale, ghostly grey. His eyes fell to the crimson vial at her waist; sure enough, it swirled and pulsed with life and fel magic, just as it had before.

“Yes,” Illidan said absent-mindedly.

“Right,” said Sam. “Time to kill things.” Without another word she shadowstepped behind Khadgar, causing the mage to jump just the tiniest amount. The portal flickered, and Sam gave another laugh before she stepped through and vanished.

Vanessa wrinkled her nose and moved up, standing warily in the spot that Sam had occupied only moments ago. She muttered pettily under her breath. “Why did it have to be her?” she groaned frustratedly, and Sekki gave only a shrug in response. Illidan looked back over to Khadgar.

“I have reservations about your Champions,” Illidan said to the mage.

“Yes, well, you’re welcome to wait for replacements,” Khadgar said, concentrating on the portal. Illidan grimaced. Khadgar was right. They would be wasting time.

“Ready when you are,” said Vanessa, holding her hand out. Sekki reached for it, grasping it tightly; then the two of them stepped through Khadgar’s portal and were gone. The chamber was empty but for Illidan and the archmage.

Illidan eyed the portal. “Where will I be coming out, on the other side?”

Khadgar was visibly pale, now, and sweating furiously as he concentrated on the portal.

“Shortly after we arrived in the Broken Isles, we established a liaison in each region, a coordinator in the event of an attack.” He stopped to let out a sequence of dry, sputtering coughs. “This portal should bring you straight to them.”

Illidan nodded. “And who is the liaison for Val’sharah?”

At this, Khadgar’s eyes seemed to twinkle, and the corner of his mouth gave the smallest twitch.

“Jarod Shadowsong,” Khadgar said, and Illidan’s blood ran cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love old-fashioned family drama? Stay tuned.
> 
> Or, badger me about chapter 2 over at @lalibertalia on tumblr.
> 
> As usual, Issari belongs to @lady-windrunner, and Sam belongs to @samariyu.


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